BOOK REVIEW : "SILENCE BETWEEN SNOWFLAKES : THE EXILE STORIES "

                                                                           

BOOK REVIEW

 ‘Silence Between Snowflakes: The Exile Stories’

Author: Kamal Hak

Publisher: Jeoffry and Bell Printers & Publishers, Delhi

ISBN: 978-93-5779-623-1

Extent: 219 Pages

Year of Publication: 2026

 (Presently Available on WhatsApp 09810866080.Being listed on Amazon shortly)

 

" Silence Between Snowflakes: The Exile Stories" by Kamal Hak is not a book that asks to be admired for its polish alone. Its force lies elsewhere: in witness, memory, indignation, tenderness, and the stubborn refusal to let a displaced world be tidied away into statistics. Hak writes as a Kashmiri Pandit in exile, but he does not write merely to record grievance. He writes to preserve a civilisation of gestures: the old neighbourhoods of Rainawari, the intimacy of temples and ghats, the rhythms of Herath, the informal republic of shop ledges, boat rides, family teasing, marriage anxieties, food, mourning, pride and humiliation. The result is a moving and often uncomfortable collection, one that gives the reader not a neat historical account but the emotional weather of exile.

‘Silence Between Snowflakes: The Exile Stories’ is not merely a collection of memoiristic sketches; it is an archive of grief, memory and cultural survival. In this deeply affecting volume, Kamal Hak transforms personal recollection into collective testimony, chronicling the emotional, social and spiritual consequences of the displacement of Kashmiri Pandits. The author himself states in the prologue that these are not fictional stories but lived experiences representing the post-exilic sentiments of an entire community.

Comprising approximately fifty stories, anecdotes, reflective essays, and personal memoirs, this collection repeatedly evokes the distinctive milieu of Rainawari, which emerges as a recurring and unifying presence in this collection. Readers who have lived in Rainawari will readily recognise many of the personalities, institutions, landmarks, and social spaces recalled by Hak. References to the Mandali at Bod Mandir, Chuni Wattul, Shomba Kalpush, Nika Halwoi(affectionately remembered as Lalla), and Teja Watal's cloth shop vividly resurrect the social fabric of a bygone Rainawari. The narrative is further enriched by allusions to a host of familiar figures, items, shops and places, including the demba nav (a simple, rudimentary boat), Ahad Teilwani, Vishwa Bharati, Bum Chooek, Kraalyar, Qadir Ganai, the local butcher, Chaman Lal Pandith, Nera Kak, Jagar Nath Akhoon, Rahman Kral, the potter, Moma Subziwoal, Mahi Kak's newspaper shop, Dr Prem Nath Waffa's medical store, Warris Khanun Chah, Hari Parbat, and the celebrated folk singer Gopi Nath Bhat, popularly known as Gupa Baccha. Collectively, these references serve not merely as nostalgic reminiscences but as valuable cultural markers that reconstruct the social and cultural landscape of old Rainawari, thereby enabling former residents and other readers alike to reconnect with a shared historical memory and sense of place.

The strongest quality of the book is its concreteness. Hak understands that memory becomes powerful when it is anchored in particulars. A house is not simply property; it is a room arrangement, a lane, a crowd of cousins, a kitchen left stocked in the hope of return. A temple is not merely a religious structure; it is the remembered image of a Shambu that once offered strength, later replaced by desecration and emptiness. Exile, in these pages, is not just departure from Kashmir. It is the loss of social texture. It is the inability to be cremated where one’s ancestors were cremated. It is the strange embarrassment of accepting ration packets when one’s family once gave freely. It is having a house in Delhi or Noida and still knowing, with painful clarity, that it may never become home.

Hak’s prose is at its best when he allows such details to breathe. In pieces such as ‘The House that could never become a Home’, ‘The Exile’, ‘My Shambu Has Disappeared’, ‘Opportunity of Heaven Lost in Exile’ and ‘Longing for Reunion’, he reaches a register of genuine pathos. These are not abstract laments. They are scenes of ordinary people caught in an extraordinary rupture. His grandmother’s longing to return, his own inability to reconcile comfort with belonging, and the recurring image of a homeland preserved in the mind but damaged in reality give the book its emotional centre. Here, the author deserves real credit. He knows that displacement is not finished when physical safety is achieved. It continues in language, ritual, memory, family formation, political invisibility and the private shame of needing help.

 The book is also valuable because it resists sentimental simplification. Hak’s love for Kashmir is fierce, but it is not tourist nostalgia. He is alert to the layers of fear, duplicity, social pressure and denial that shaped the Pandit experience before and after 1990. ‘First Awakening’, for example, presents humiliation well before the formal rupture of exile. ‘Kashmir: A Perennial Enigma’ and *Kashmir – Seen without a Prism’ show his continuing effort to understand contemporary Kashmir without surrendering to fashionable optimism. He is sceptical of easy reconciliations, especially those that ask victims to treat their own memories as an inconvenience. Whether the reader agrees with every political inference or not, the honesty of the author’s position is difficult to dismiss. He writes from a wound, but he does not pretend the wound is small.

At the same time, the book is not only about injury inflicted from outside. One of its more interesting dimensions is Hak’s critique of his own community. He worries about cultural thinning, social complacency, performative leadership, dowry practices, out-of-community marriages driven not only by choice but by economic and ritual pressures, and the way exile can turn solidarity into fragmentation. Pieces such as ‘The finger points at me’, ‘An apology to Turmoil’s Children’, ‘Wanted a Suitable Boy’, ‘Do Kashmiri Pandits Give Dowry?, ‘Is it all about Rainawari?’ and ‘Celebration of Destruction’ are effective because they complicate the book’s moral field. Hak is not merely accusing the world; he is also asking what the displaced have done, or failed to do, with their pain. That gives the collection a seriousness beyond complaint. It also prevents the reader from reducing the book to a single political emotion; its canvas includes ethics, inheritance, habit, loss and self-reproach.

The account of the vandalisation of the Shiva temple at Rainawari is rendered with remarkable restraint, a narrative strategy that makes the episode all the more poignant. Hak avoids rhetorical excess, recording the desecration with quiet anguish. The tragedy lies not merely in the destruction of a sacred edifice but in the profound spiritual dislocation it engenders. The disappearance of ‘Shambhu’, the temple's Shiva Linga, signifies the loss of an inner sanctuary that had sustained the author through exile. The temple's vandalisation thus becomes emblematic of a wider cultural rupture; an erosion of memory, continuity, and sacred geography, leaving behind an enduring sense of bereavement and existential loss.

 Another notable strength is the author’s words for speech. Kashmiri, Hindi and English expressions enter the narrative without apology, and this multilingual texture gives the book credibility. The reader feels that these stories have not been translated out of their cultural climate. They retain the heat of argument, the awkwardness of family conversation, the sudden intimacy of strangers, and the sharpness of public humiliation. For readers outside the community, some references may demand patience, but that is a reasonable demand. Hak is not writing a museum label for outsiders; he is writing from within a wounded inheritance.

The structure of the book is deliberately non-chronological, and this suits the subject. Exile rarely arrives in a straight line. Memory loops, interrupts, returns, contradict themselves, and then return again with greater force. The book moves between the 1970s, 1990s, later visits to Kashmir, political episodes, social gatherings, religious ceremonies and domestic conversations. At times, this creates a cumulative rhythm, like someone opening many old trunks in a single room. The same names, places and anxieties recur, but each return adds a different pressure. Rainawari becomes geography, community, symbol and accusation all at once.

Silence Between Snowflakes often feels less like a curated literary object and more like a living archive: raw, insistent, crowded, grieving, funny, irritated, devotional and defiant. Hak’s humour is one of the underrated strengths of the book. His accounts of Kashmiri food, onions, Mooli, social habits and community gatherings prevent the collection from becoming monochrome. The laughter is not decorative. It shows what exile threatened to erase: not merely land or property, but personality, wit, appetite, neighbourhood absurdity and the daily theatre of a people.

The title is well chosen. The silence in the book is not peaceful. It is the silence after abandonment, after disbelief, after failed promises, after unanswered questions. But snowflakes also suggest fragility and uniqueness. Each story is a small unit of remembered life, easily lost unless held carefully. Hak’s achievement is that he holds many such fragments long enough for the reader to feel their weight. He turns private recollection into communal testimony without entirely flattening the individuality of the people he recalls.

A notable feature is the author’s extraordinary clarity of observation. Social details are rendered with ethnographic precision: neighbourhood characters, temple rituals, culinary practices, linguistic nuances and communal interactions are described vividly. Consequently, the book serves not only as a memoir but also as a valuable cultural document preserving aspects of Kashmiri Pandit life that risk disappearance. Silence Between Snowflakes is therefore a worthy and necessary book. It may not always moderate its intensity for the reader’s comfort. But it is honest, humane, historically alert and emotionally exacting. Kamal Hak deserves praise not because he has produced a flawless work, but because he has done something more consequential: he has recorded the inner life of exile before silence can swallow it. He gives his community’s grief names, rooms, roads, rituals, arguments and voices. In doing so, he reminds us that exile is not only the story of leaving a place. It is the longer, harder story of carrying that place inside oneself, even when return has become uncertain. Silence Between Snowflakes belongs to the growing corpus of South Asian exile literature. Yet it differs from many contemporary memoirs in its insistence upon memory as moral testimony. Hak repeatedly emphasises remembrance as an ethical responsibility. This volume is not merely read; it is experienced. It lingers long after the final page, like silence itself; soft, persistent and impossible to ignore.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

MY SHORT STORY, "THE WEIGHT OF NOTHING"

                                                  

 The Weight of Nothing

James Whitaker occupies the corner office on the second floor, not because he built anything, but because he learned to smile at the right angle. He calls it managing up. Others call it flattery. He calls it survival. His CV is thin. His tongue is not. He remembers Martin Hale’s dog’s birthday, laughs at jokes before the punchline lands, and delivers bad news like it’s a gift wrapped in velvet. He is clever, but never serious. Seriousness would require weight, and weight would slow him down. So he floats. Up. Past engineers, past accountants, past men with twenty years of service who still believe work speaks for itself. It doesn’t. James speaks for it. He now sits second from the top. The view is good. The air is thinner.

Claire Bennett is twenty-six. She joined the company for the logo on her LinkedIn, the way people join churches for the architecture. She is competent, but competence is a crowded market. James notices her on a Tuesday. He notices the way she leans in when he talks, as if his words have gravity. They don’t. But he lets her think they do. He does not love her. He does not pretend to. He offers a transaction with the softness of a promise. “You’re wasted at your level,” he says, hand not quite touching hers. “Let me talk to Daniel. We’ll get you moved up.” She understands. Or she decides not to understand too clearly. Ambition is a fog that makes monsters look like mentors. She agrees. They meet after hours. The office is empty. The ethics policy is in a drawer somewhere, unread.

Daniel Rowe is forty-one. He keeps a framed photo of his daughter, Emily, on his desk, though he seldom looks at it. He also keeps a copy of the company’s code of conduct in his drawer, read and underlined, though he cannot say why. He believes in merit the way other men believe in weather: it simply is, and to argue with it would be absurd. When James comes to him on a Thursday, Daniel listens without blinking. “Put Claire up for promotion,” James says, all charm and inevitability. “Martin likes her. You know how it is.” Daniel opens her file. Six months in. Two missed deadlines. One HR note about argumentative tone. No merit. None. Except James’s interest, which is Martin’s interest, which is now, by the strange physics of this company, the company’s interest. He closes the file. “I can’t recommend her,” he says. His voice has no heat in it. “It’s not right. It’s not true.” James smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Think about your own review,” he says. “Martin was just asking me who’s ready for Director. I told him you were.” Daniel shrugs. He had not thought about his review. He does not think about it now. Consequences are for men who expect the world to make sense. He does not. He knows only that a lie would be a kind of death, and he is not ready to die that way. He does not think of Emily. Or he does, and it changes nothing. Truth is not negotiable, even against a child’s face.

A month later, the company restructures. The email uses words like agility and streamlining. The list of names is short. Daniel’s is on it. HR calls it redundancy. Martin avoids eye contact in the hallway. James sends a regretful note: Tough market. Nothing personal. Let me know if you need a reference. Daniel reads it once, folds it, and puts it in his pocket. He packs his desk. The photo of Emily goes into a box. The code of conduct stays in the drawer. No one will read it. He leaves without saying goodbye. Goodbyes imply a future, and he is not interested in futures.

James gets his coffee. He looks out the second-floor window. Claire gets her promotion on Friday. She does not look at him when she passes his office. She looks at the floor. Or maybe through it.

That night, Daniel sits in his car and does not turn the key. It has begun to rain. He thinks: I did the right thing. The thought is not warm. It is not cold. It is simply there, like the rain on the windscreen. He was called the spine. Spines are removed all the time. The organism keeps moving. He had refused because refusal was the only action that did not feel like acting. He did not calculate the mortgage, or Emily’s school fees, or his wife’s silence at dinner. To calculate would have been to weigh truth against something else, and he does not know how to put truth on a scale. He suffers, but the suffering is quiet, almost indifferent. He accepts it the way he accepts the rain. He will not appeal. He will not explain. The absurdity is not that he was fired. The absurdity is that anyone thought he would do otherwise.

James, for his part, feels nothing. Not guilt, not victory. Only a faint boredom, the kind that comes after a meal that was too rich. He had assured Martin that Daniel was not a culture fit. Martin had nodded. Martin likes harmony. James provides harmony. Claire sits in her new cubicle. The title is heavier than she expected. She opens her laptop. The screen lights up her face. She is not sure if she climbed or was lifted. She is not sure if there’s a difference.

None of them resign. None of them confess. The company releases its quarterly report. Profits are up. Martin thanks the team in the all-hands. James claps. Outside, the rain keeps falling. The building does not notice. The second-floor window reflects only the sky, empty and grey and indifferent. Each of them, in their own way, has become what the company needed them to be. Daniel, alone, has become what he was. And for him, that is enough. Or it is nothing. He does not measure the difference.

( Avtar Mota )

PS

Critical Commentary on Avtar Mota's new short story : "The Weight of Nothing "

This is not a story about a redundancy. It is a study in corporate metaphysics. Mota strips the office of its beige carpet and fluorescent sympathy, and shows us a vacuum where ethics, gravity, and meaning ought to be. The piece is lean, diagnostic, and deliberately cold. It refuses catharsis. That refusal is its point.

The title  invokes Sartre and Camus without naming them. James Whitaker “floats” because he is weightless ,  no substance, no conviction, no ethical mass. He rises in the same way a helium balloon does: by being empty. Daniel Rowe is his inverse. He has weight. He calls it a spine. The company calls it redundancy. 

Daniel’s refusal to recommend Claire is not heroism. It is absurd fidelity. “Truth is not negotiable, even against a child’s face.” That line does Camus’s work: the choice to live without appeal, to act without hope of coherence. He does not calculate mortgage or school fees because “to calculate would have been to weigh truth against something else, and he does not know how to put truth on a scale.” He is Sisyphus who refuses to pretend the rock is light. The punishment is exile. The victory, if it exists, is that he does not notice the difference between enough and  nothing.

Mota understands that the truly existential moment isn’t a grand speech. It’s Daniel sitting in a car, not turning the key, watching rain. “The thought is not warm. It is not cold. It is simply there.” Indifference as moral achievement.

None of these people are round characters. They are principles in suits. James is the logic of the institution made flesh: charm as currency, flattery as strategy, harmony as a euphemism for compliance. “He now sits second from the top. The view is good. The air is thinner.” The metaphor is perfect. Height without oxygen. Status without substance.

Claire is not villain or victim. She is the fog of ambition. “She is not sure if she climbed or was lifted. She is not sure if there’s a difference.”That single sentence captures how systems dissolve agency. The promotion is heavier than she expected because it isn’t hers. It’s James’s. It’s Martin’s. It’s the company’s.

Daniel is not good. He is exact. He underlines the code of conduct “though he cannot say why.”He believes in merit “the way other men believe in weather.” He isn’t moralising; he is constituted by a rule. When the rule and the world conflict, he does not bend. He breaks. Quietly.

Martin Hale, barely on stage, is the most damning figure: the boss who “likes harmony” and therefore outsources ethics to James. He doesn’t fire Daniel. He allows the organism to expel the spine.

The prose is surgical. Short sentences. No adverbs. No pleas to the reader. Mota uses corporate diction against itself: “agility and streamlining”, “culture fit”, “tough market”. The clichés are displayed like specimens. They are dead words that kill live people.

The imagery is elemental and hostile: floating, rain, grey sky, thin air. The building “does not notice.” The window “reflects only the sky, empty and grey and indifferent.” Pathetic fallacy is denied. The universe isn’t cruel. It’s unconcerned. So is the quarterly report. Dialogue is weaponised. James’s “Nothing personal” lands precisely because it is personal. Daniel’s silence is louder than argument. The only quoted promise  “Let me talk to Daniel”  is a lie inside a transaction.

This story sits in a tradition. You hear Orwell’s “politics is the choice between the lesser evil” inverted: here the lesser evil is choosing nothing. You hear Kafka’s The Trial,  where the rules are opaque but the penalty is clear. You hear Camus’s The Plague, where decency is “doing one’s job” without reward. But the closest kin is possibly George Saunders’s corporate satires, stripped of Saunders’s warmth. Mota gives you no ironic cushion. You don’t laugh. You nod.

The piece also interrogates a modern heresy: that work speaks for itself. Daniel believes it. The story demonstrates that work is mute unless ventriloquised by James. In that sense, the story is about language. James speaks. Daniel reads. One floats. One files.

The last paragraph is the verdict: “None of them resign. None of them confess. The company releases its quarterly report. Profits are up.” The system is not evil. It is functional. It has excised the one part that created friction. “The organism keeps moving.” That is the horror. Not that Daniel suffers, but that his suffering is irrelevant.

“Daniel, alone, has become what he was. And for him, that is enough. Or it is nothing. He does not measure the difference.” That is the final, bleak calculus. In a world of performance reviews, Daniel refuses to be reviewed, even by himself. Mota does not ask you to admire Daniel or hate James. He asks you to notice that the building, like the sky, is indifferent. And that, in such a world, the weight of nothing might be the only weight worth carrying.

(  Review by a University Teacher ) 

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

THE PIZZA THAT BEGAN WITH FLOUR

                               

The Pizza That Began with Flour

 

One sunny afternoon in Paris, my son announced that he would make a special pizza for us. Rather than ordering one from a restaurant, he wanted to create it entirely by hand, from the dough to the toppings. It was an ambitious plan, but he was determined to prepare a meal that would bring the whole family together around the dining table.

The journey began with a visit to a local market. Carefully selecting a bag of fine farine( flour ), he imagined the pizza that would emerge from it. Back at home, he laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter: flour, water, yeast, salt, tomato sauce, fresh basil leaves, and creamy mozzarella. Each ingredient seemed ordinary on its own, yet together they promised something wonderful. The first task was to make the dough. Into a large bowl went the flour, followed by water and yeast. With steady hands, he mixed everything together until a rough dough formed. Then came the hard work. He kneaded the dough patiently, pressing, folding, and turning it again and again. The kitchen filled with a sense of purpose as the sticky mixture gradually transformed into a smooth, silky ball. When he was satisfied, he placed the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and covered it carefully. Now came the most difficult part: waiting. The dough would rest overnight.

As evening turned to night and the lights of Paris twinkled beyond the windows, the dough quietly performed its magic. While everyone slept, the yeast worked tirelessly. Tiny bubbles formed throughout the dough, giving it strength and character. By morning, what had started as a simple mixture of flour and water had doubled in size and become light, airy and full of promise. The next day, he lifted the cover and smiled. The dough had risen beautifully. Gently, he tipped it onto the work surface and shaped it with care. Rather than rushing, he stretched it slowly, allowing it to find its natural shape. The round base grew larger and thinner until it looked ready for its toppings.

Meanwhile, tomato sauce was kept handy, fresh basil leaves were washed and set aside, their sweet aroma filling the kitchen. The mozzarella was torn into soft pieces, ready to melt into creamy pools of flavour. The pizza began to take shape. A layer of tomato sauce was spread across the dough. The mozzarella followed, scattered generously across the surface. Finally, the basil leaves were added, bringing a burst of colour and the unmistakable scent of an Italian summer.

When everything was ready, the pizza was carefully placed into the hot oven. Soon, the kitchen was transformed. The aroma of baking bread drifted through the house. The scent of roasting tomatoes mingled with the fragrance of basil. The mozzarella softened and bubbled gently, while the crust slowly turned golden and crisp around the edges. Everyone found themselves wandering into the kitchen, drawn by the irresistible smell. There were curious glances through the oven door and eager questions about how much longer it would take. The anticipation grew with every passing minute.

At last, the moment arrived. The pizza emerged from the oven looking magnificent. The crust was beautifully golden, the mozzarella glistened in creamy white patches, the tomato sauce too looked elegant on the surface, and the basil leaves had released their wonderful fragrance. It looked like something from a traditional pizzeria, yet it had been created entirely at home. With great care, he carried the pizza to the dining table. For a moment, we simply admired it. It represented far more than flour, tomato sauce, basil and cheese. It was the result of patience, effort and love, the reward for a process that had begun the previous day with a simple bag of flour and a desire to make something special for his family.

As the pizza was sliced, the cheese stretched into long ribbons. Conversation filled the room, accompanied by smiles and laughter. The first bite confirmed what everyone had hoped: the crust was crisp on the outside and soft within, the tomatoes were sweet and rich, the basil fresh and fragrant, and the mozzarella wonderfully creamy.

That evening in Paris, the meal became a cherished memory. What started with a handful of flour and an overnight rise ended with a family gathered around a table, sharing not only a delicious pizza but also the joy of something lovingly made by hand. The pizza disappeared slice by slice, but the story of how it came to life remained long after the last crumb had gone. It was a simple meal, yet it carried something priceless, the warmth of family and the love with which it had been made.

 

(Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

WHY THE SELF IMAGE OBSTRUCTS TRUTH AND FAIR PLAY ?

                                                                      

                                                                         

"Reality is merely an illusion

albeit a very persistent one."...............Albert Einstein

The Borrowed Mirror: Why the Self-Image Obstructs Truth and Fair Play

Every man has an image of himself, but unfortunately, that image is not true. It is essentially based on “what others think about you.” The self-image you carry is rarely drawn from direct perception. It is a composite sketched by other people’s eyes.

The Western Mirror: Sociology and Existentialism

Charles Cooley called this the “looking-glass self”: we imagine how we appear to others, imagine their judgment, then feel pride or shame and call that feeling “me.” The image is second-hand data, hearsay, not direct knowledge. Jean-Paul Sartre sharpened the point. Under the Other’s gaze, you are reduced from subject to object, frozen into labels like “timid” or “brilliant.” Once accepted, that label becomes bad faith, a lie you tell yourself to avoid the anxiety of freedom. You become an actor protecting a role instead of living a life.

G.H. Mead split the psyche into the socialised “Me,” which is just the sum of attitudes you’ve absorbed from family, culture, and peers, and the spontaneous “I,” which acts but is constantly censored by the “Me.” Most people live as the “Me” and forget the “I” exists. So the image feels like the whole self, when it’s actually just social residue. Erving Goffman showed that we are always performing, managing impressions to keep the social script running. To protect the image, you curate reality: hide losses, exaggerate wins, avoid risks that might crack the mask.

The Eastern dissolution: Buddhism and the Upanishads

The Buddha’s doctrine of "Anatta" claims there is no fixed bearer of traits at all, only shifting processes of body, feeling, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. Your “image” is just Sankhara, mental formations, heavily shaped by praise and blame. Clinging to it is " Dukkha", or suffering.

The Upanishads name the image-maker Ahamkara, the “I-maker.” It appropriates experiences and says, “This is mine, this is me.” The Brihadaranyaka Upanishad gives the antidote: neti, neti, “not this, not this.” You are not the body, not the thoughts, not the roles, not the reputation others assign you. Each label is subjected to negation until nothing remains that can be objectified. Atman is the seer itself, which can never become an object of perception or social judgment.

The Chandogya Upanishad declares, "Tat Tvam Asi",, “That Thou Art.” The “Thou” is not the biographical personality built from others’ opinions. Adi Shankara clarifies: it is Atman which is identical with Brahman, the infinite. The image is Nama-rupa, name and form; something temporary and social fiction. To identify with it is Avidya or ignorance. The Katha Upanishad uses the chariot analogy: the senses are the horses, the mind is the reins, but Ahamkara is the charioteer who thinks he owns the chariot. When you drop the image, you drop Ahamkara. Without ahamkara, there is no one to be offended, no brand to protect, and therefore no motive to cheat the game.

Why does the image corrupt fair play

An image does not sit idle. It legislates. If your image is “winner,” you cannot afford to lose honestly, so you tilt the board. If your image is “victim,” you cannot afford to win, so you sabotage the game. In both cases, the image becomes the player, and you become its servant. Nietzsche called this ressentiment: living reactively, defining yourself against others rather than from your own will. Heidegger calls us Dasein, a being whose nature is possibility, not definition. To nail yourself to an image is to trade possibility for predictability. Heraclitus reminds us you cannot step in the same river twice, yet the image pretends you are the same person you were when the label was first applied.

The way out: Image-less living

The Mandukya Upanishad points to Turiya, the fourth state, which is pure witnessing consciousness. In Sakshi-bhava, the witness attitude, you watch thoughts, roles, and social reactions arise without claiming them. The Isha Upanishad opens with "tena tyaktena bhunjithah" or “enjoy through renunciation.” Renounce the image, and you can engage the world without attachment to outcome. When you drop the image, three things happen: 1. Perception clears: you see others without filtering them through your need to be seen a certain way. 2. Action liberates: you can fail, change, or excel without betraying a brand. 3. Fair play returns: because the game is no longer about defending a fiction, it is about meeting what is, moment to moment, without a script. Anything that has no fixed identity cannot be defeated.

So the image is static while you are processing, second-hand while you require first-hand knowing, and socially useful while truth requires useless honesty. It is a name tag, not a biography. "Satyam jnanam anantam brahma" or "Brahman is truth, knowledge, infinite". Anything finite, labelled, and borrowed is Asatya, not true.

Keeping an image about self is always an obstruction in the path of Satya. And truth mirrors nothing.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

WHEN HOLY MEN WALKED , NOT PREACHED FROM PULPITS

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WHEN HOLY MEN WALKED , NOT PREACHED FROM  PULPITS

The  Ramta Jogi or the wandering ascetic  was once the engine of India’s spiritual life.For the wandering ascetics , distance was devotion. No fixed address meant no attachment. Today, many gurus sit in AC halls. The contrast is stark.

Hindu Sadhus, Buddhist Bhikkhus, Shramanas, Ajivikas , Jain Munis, Sikh Gurus  and Sufi  Faqirs treated travel as  Tapas. Adi Shankara travelled to all four corners of India :  from Kalady in Kerala to Kashmir, Dwarka to Puri, Kedarnath to Kanchi : meeting common people, staying under trees, and preaching simplicity. He debated scholars yet ate with villagers, establishing Mathas while owning nothing but a  Danda and Kamandalu. Xuanzang crossed deserts to bring sutras from India to China.

Most of the Sufi Faquirs who came to India from Iran ,  travelled on foot . And Kashmiri Buddhist savants  crossed Himalayas and Pamirs on foot to spread the message of Tathagata. Guru Nanak Dev Ji turned the Ramta Jogi model into revolution. Five Udasis, 26 years, and 28,000 km. He walked to Mecca, Baghdad, Tibet, Sri Lanka and Assam with Bhai Mardana, challenging Pandits, Qazis and  Siddhas  alike.

Many Christian saints lived as wanderers. St Francis walked barefoot across Italy, St Paul crossed the Roman Empire on foot, and Irish saints like Columba and Brendan roamed without fixed destination. In the desert, St Anthony moved cave to cave. For them, walking kept the soul unburdened and free from worldly attachment.

For the old ascetics, travel was renunciation. Hunger, blisters and bandits were part of the spiritual ledger. They sought solitude in Himalayan caves, merit at  Teerthas,  and dialogue in Bazaars. The point wasn’t followers. It was to burn ego by refusing comfort, and to test truth against every school of thought they met on the road.

The long road, walked in faith, was itself a quiet philosophy. Each step stripped something away ; comfort fell first, then pride, until only the bare self remained. In that bareness the *soul was purified*, because there was nothing left to hide behind. The *ego died not by force, but by starvation: when you beg for your bread and sleep on bare earth, the “I” that demands status has nowhere to live. And as the pilgrim passed through village after village, a gentler truth revealed itself: every stranger’s eyes held the same hunger, the same hope, the same fear of death. In recognising himself in them, his compassion widened* beyond kin and creed. The road did not just lead to a temple , it taught that the divine is met in the moment we see our likeness in another, and choose to hold it.

Contrast that with many of today’s religious leaders. Sermons stream from air-conditioned studios. Darshan is ticketed. World tours mean private jets, five-star hotels and cordoned stages. The  Ramta Jogi begged for Bhiksha and slept under trees. The modern Guru often manages trusts, commands media empires and rarely meets a critic unscripted.

The Ramta Jogi earned authority through vulnerability.  They earned  it barefoot, one village at a time. When leaders sit in rooms, faith risks becoming property ;  guarded, curated, monetised. The road made saints listen. Rooms make them speak.

And Kabir also believes it :

"Behta paani nirmala, para gandila hoye  

Sadhu te ramta bhala, dagi na lage koye..."...Kabir 

(बहता पानी निर्मला, पड़ा गंदीला होय  

साधु ते रमता भला, दागी न लागे कोय)

(Flowing water stays pure; 

stagnant water gets dirty  

A wandering  Sadhu is best ,

No stain sticks to him.)

(Avtar Mota)

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY AND PARIS

                                                 

            (Above Photos : Hemingway in Paris )

                                                                ( The Restaurant Now )

                                                        ( The Restaurant Then in the 1920s )

ERNEST HEMINGWAY AND PARIS

 

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”…Ernest Hemingway

 

Ernest Hemingway was one of the most influential American writers of the twentieth century, celebrated for his clear, concise prose and powerful storytelling. Born in 1899, he produced a remarkable body of work that explored themes such as courage, love, war, loss and human endurance. Among his most famous books are The Sun Also Rises (1926), which captured the spirit of the post-war “Lost Generation”, A Farewell to Arms (1929), a moving novel set during the First World War, For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), which examines the Spanish Civil War, and The Old Man and the Sea (1952), the story of an ageing fisherman’s struggle against nature and fate. Other notable works include Men Without Women, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, and To Have and Have Not. Hemingway’s literary achievements earned him widespread recognition and several prestigious honours. In 1953, he received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Old Man and the Sea, a work praised for its simplicity, depth and emotional power. The following year, in 1954, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his mastery of the art of narrative and for the influence his writing had on modern literature. Hemingway’s works continue to be read and admired throughout the world.

Ernest Hemingway's Love for Paris: His Years in the French Capital, Favourite Cafés and Restaurants, Literary Friendships, and Lasting Memories

Ernest Hemingway's love for Paris remains one of the most celebrated relationships between a writer and a city in modern literary history. For Hemingway, Paris was far more than a place of residence. It was the city in which he matured as a writer, developed his distinctive literary style, formed important friendships, and acquired experiences that would influence his work for the rest of his life. Although he later lived in Spain, Cuba, Key West, and many other places, Paris retained a unique place in his imagination. His memoir A Moveable Feast stands as one of the greatest literary tributes ever written to the French capital.

Hemingway arrived in Paris with his first wife, Hadley Richardson, in December 1921. At the time he was only twenty-two years old and was working as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star. The city he entered was one of the most exciting cultural centres in the world. The First World War had ended only a few years earlier, and Paris had become a magnet for artists, writers, musicians, philosophers, and intellectuals from Europe and North America. The French capital was alive with creativity, experimentation, and debate. The young couple initially settled at 74 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine in the Latin Quarter. Their apartment was small and modest, lacking many comforts. Yet Hemingway later remembered those years with great affection. He often recalled climbing the stairs to the apartment after long days spent writing, reading, or walking through the city. Poverty was a reality, but it was accompanied by a sense of purpose and possibility. The Latin Quarter suited Hemingway perfectly. It was a district filled with students, scholars, artists, and inexpensive cafés. The neighbourhood allowed him to live economically while dedicating himself to the craft of writing. He spent countless hours wandering through its narrow streets, observing people and gathering impressions that would later find their way into his fiction.

One of Hemingway's greatest pleasures was simply walking through Paris. He explored the city's boulevards, bridges, parks, markets, and riverside quays. The River Seine became one of his favourite landmarks. He enjoyed crossing its bridges and strolling along its banks while reflecting upon stories and ideas. These walks helped him cultivate the habit of close observation, a skill that became essential to his literary method. The cafés of Paris played a particularly important role in Hemingway's life. They served not merely as places to eat or drink but as offices, meeting rooms, and centres of intellectual exchange. One of his favourite establishments was La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse. Here he frequently sat with notebooks and manuscripts, working quietly while surrounded by the atmosphere of literary Paris. The café provided the concentration and calm that he needed to write.

Another establishment closely associated with Hemingway was the Café de Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germain. This famous café attracted writers, journalists, and artists. Hemingway appreciated the opportunity to watch people while working. Observation was central to his creative process, and Parisian cafés provided an endless supply of human drama. Les Deux Magots, another renowned literary café, was also among the places he frequented. The establishment became famous for hosting intellectual discussions and literary debates. Hemingway enjoyed the environment created by the gathering of creative minds from different backgrounds and nationalities. In Montparnasse, he also spent time at Le Dôme Café, Le Select, and La Rotonde. These cafés were important meeting places for the expatriate community. Writers, painters, sculptors, and critics gathered there to discuss art, literature, politics, and life. Hemingway found himself at the centre of an extraordinary cultural network. La Rotonde was particularly famous for welcoming artists regardless of their financial circumstances. A struggling painter or writer could sit there for hours with a single drink. Hemingway admired this democratic atmosphere. The café represented the inclusive spirit of artistic Paris. Le Select offered a more cosmopolitan environment and remained open late into the night. Conversations often continued into the early hours of the morning. For a young writer eager to learn, every discussion provided an opportunity for growth.

                                                                          

                                                         (The Restaurant  in the 1920s )

                                                          (The Restaurant  Now  )

Among restaurants, Hemingway enjoyed numerous traditional Parisian bistros and brasseries. Brasserie Lipp became one of the notable establishments associated with literary culture. He appreciated good French food, although his limited income often prevented extravagant dining. Many of his meals consisted of simple dishes accompanied by wine, coffee, or bread purchased from local shops.

The intellectual world of Paris introduced Hemingway to several influential figures. One of the most important was Gertrude Stein. Her apartment at 27 Rue de Fleurus functioned as a salon where artists and writers gathered regularly. Stein recognised Hemingway's talent and encouraged his development. She famously referred to the post-war generation as the "Lost Generation," a phrase that Hemingway later used as an epigraph for The Sun Also Rises. At Stein's salon, Hemingway encountered major artistic personalities, including Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse. Exposure to such figures broadened his understanding of modern art and reinforced his commitment to innovation in literature. Another crucial friendship was with Ezra Pound.

Pound became a mentor and supporter of Hemingway's early career. Hemingway admired Pound's generosity toward younger writers and valued his critical advice. Pound encouraged discipline and precision, qualities that became hallmarks of Hemingway's prose. Hemingway also developed a complex friendship with F. Scott Fitzgerald. The two writers spent considerable time together in Paris. Fitzgerald introduced Hemingway to aspects of literary society, while Hemingway admired Fitzgerald's talent. Their relationship was marked by both friendship and rivalry. James Joyce was another notable figure within Hemingway's Parisian circle. Hemingway greatly respected Joyce's intellectual brilliance and literary achievement. Although their styles differed dramatically, Hemingway appreciated Joyce's dedication to artistic innovation. A question often asked is whether Hemingway met Jean-Paul Sartre or Albert Camus. The answer requires some historical clarification. During Hemingway's most formative Paris years in the 1920s, neither Sartre nor Camus was part of his immediate circle. Jean-Paul Sartre was younger than Hemingway and did not become a major public intellectual until the 1930s and 1940s. There is no well-documented evidence of a significant personal friendship or regular association between Hemingway and Sartre. While both men spent time in Paris and achieved international literary fame, they belonged largely to different intellectual circles.

Similarly, Albert Camus emerged as a prominent literary figure later than Hemingway. Camus arrived in Paris from Algeria in the 1940s and became associated with existentialist and philosophical debates. Although Hemingway and Camus admired some of each other's work, there is no substantial evidence of a close personal relationship. They may have encountered one another at literary events, but historians have found no record of an enduring friendship comparable to Hemingway's relationships with Pound, Fitzgerald, or Stein. Despite not being closely connected to Sartre or Camus, Hemingway influenced many French intellectuals through his writing. French readers admired his concise prose style, his emphasis on action rather than explanation, and his exploration of courage, suffering, and human dignity.

Another important institution in Hemingway's Paris was Shakespeare and Company, the famous English-language bookshop owned by Sylvia Beach. The shop served as a meeting place for expatriate writers and readers. Beach supported many authors and became one of Hemingway's valued friends. The bookshop provided access to literature that might otherwise have been difficult to obtain. The city itself functioned as Hemingway's education. Although he had not completed a university degree, Paris exposed him to literature, art, philosophy, history, and culture at the highest level. Museums, galleries, libraries, and bookshops became classrooms in which he expanded his knowledge.                                                                            

                                                                                

                ( Avtar Mota  Outside Shakespeare And company  )

Financial hardship remained a recurring feature of his Paris years. Nevertheless, he later described this period as one of the happiest times of his life. In A Moveable Feast, he recalled writing in cafés because they were warmer than his apartment during winter. A single cup of coffee could provide several hours of shelter and productive work. His famous statement about Paris remains one of the most quoted passages in literary history:

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

This sentence captures the essence of Hemingway's attachment to the city. Paris was not simply a geographical location. It became part of his identity. The memories travelled with him wherever he went. Even decades after leaving France, he continued to remember specific streets, cafés, restaurants, and friendships. When he wrote A Moveable Feast during the late 1950s, he reconstructed the Paris of his youth with extraordinary affection and detail. The memoir was published posthumously in 1964 and introduced new generations of readers to the city that had shaped him.

Today, visitors still seek out 74 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, La Closerie des Lilas, Café de Flore, Les Deux Magots, Le Dôme, Le Select, La Rotonde, Brasserie Lipp, Shakespeare and Company, and other places associated with Hemingway. These locations have become literary landmarks because they represent the environment in which one of the twentieth century's greatest writers found his voice. For Hemingway, Paris symbolised youth, ambition, discovery, friendship, and artistic growth. It was the city where he learned his craft, refined his style, and gained confidence in his abilities. The French capital offered him opportunities that transformed his life. Above all, Paris provided the inspiration that helped create the writer who would later win the Nobel Prize in Literature and become one of the defining literary figures of the modern age.

                                         

His affection for Paris never faded. The city remained a cherished memory, a source of inspiration, and a permanent part of his literary legacy. Through his books and memoirs, Hemingway ensured that his Paris would continue to live in the imagination of readers throughout the world.

 

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.